I just rediscovered some instant film I shot in Seattle over the summer—
This is the tiny secondhand bookshop in the depths of the market—the same one I fondly remembered discovering when I was fifteen and was secretly hoping to find again—in which I loitered for almost an hour. It was delightful. The bearded owner serenaded me in what sounded like Yiddish (but how should I know, really?) and we talked art history and film cameras and Beatles songs and Europe. I bought aged British poetry books. (And I met a young Danish backpacker there on summer holiday from his job at a Canadian ski resort, but that's hardly relevant.)
The whole experience was beautiful—purely beautiful. There isn't a better, more flowery or complex way to say it. Thinking about it fills me with this indescribable essence of nostalgia, helps me remember that beauty resides in these small moments—in all small moments where, if only for a second, you extract a sliver of personalized beauty and embroider it into the happiness you're making for yourself.